Grayson.
When my phone pings, I glance down at the incoming text.
Slate: I lost her.
Because of a jackhammer in the background, I can’t hear a damn thing when I call him back. “What?”
The noise lowers after thirty painful seconds and Slate explains, “I pulled up in front of your building, circled the block, but she’d already split. Someone must’ve picked her up.”
Jealousy flares. Is it the same asshole that hurt her?
“I got a really bad feeling.” Slate’s got the instincts of an ex-marine and I trust him.
Dammit he’s right.
Goose bumps run down my spine as I recall Izzy acting all kinds of strange this morning. Something is up. I should’ve questioned her before jumping into the sack. In my defense, I thought we’d have time after.
I find a clean white shirt in my walk-in closet along with newly dry-cleaned slacks. Then, with my phone on speaker, I set them on the messy covers where me and Izzy just made love.
“Where are you?” Quickly, I step into my pants and grab my shirt.
Slate’s tone, like always, is emotionless. “Waiting outside.”
“Give me five.”
Before I met Isabella, my world was black and white. Now it’s Techni-color and I’m not giving that up, not without a fight.
The way she made love? That wasn’t a woman ready to break up. So, what’s going on? And who the fuck hurt her?
In the limo, I greet the grim-faced Slate, then call my personal assistant, Cherry.
She sounds half asleep when she answers. “Hey, Grayson… What’s up?”
For her, it’s only five AM. “Sorry to wake you but I need you to cancel my flight. I’ll take my meetings today, virtually. Set that up for me, will you?”
“Sure. No problem. Is everything okay?”
“I hope so. Talk later.”
Isabella is not slipping away from me. Whatever is going on, she damn well is going to confess the moment I find her.
Slate opens the limo door in front of my Canal Street office and I catch his concerned gaze. “Ping me the moment she gets here.”
No doubt he feels responsible for losing her. “Sure, Gray. You got this.”
He slaps me on the back and gets back in the vehicle.
I hate what happened this morning and again wonder if our sex was too rough. I never got around to asking about her childhood abuse. I figured it was none of my business and she’d tell me when she was good and ready.
Shit. What if her past came back to haunt her? I have no idea what goes on inside her head. The only guy I know who might be able to help is the husband of her best friend, Melanie.
I pick up the phone and call Cherry again. “Hey. Can you see if you can get CJ Quinn on the phone?”
“The famous quarterback?”
“Yes. His wife has a rehab center in Manhattan. You can start by looking there.” I hang up and by the time she calls me back, I’m sitting in my office in front of three monitors displaying about twenty spreadsheets.
“Hey boss. I got Chance on the line. Do me a favor. Find out if he has a brother.”
“Thank you, Cherry. You can hang up now.” I laugh off her request and wait for the click that tells me she’s gone.
I must’ve interrupted something important because Quinn is out of breath and his tone is irritated. “Patten? What’s up.”
“Listen, I know we didn’t hit it off but I need your help. It’s Isabella.”
“Fuck. Is she okay?” Weights clang as if dropped onto a gym floor, and a man grunts in the background.
“I know you’re busy but I was wondering… Ah, I don’t even know how to ask. She goes to that self-help group your wife started, right?”
“Yeah. What of it?”
“I ah… Isabella came to my house this morning all banged up and insisted we make love. Then, out of the blue she called off our engagement. I thought maybe you could help me out. I’m way out of my league.”
“Wow. Oh, shit.” He pauses for almost a minute while fitness machines grind in the background.
“I’m no expert. Most of what I learned, I got out of books. There’s some pretty good stuff online but who knows. Abuse is weird, man. The trauma comes and goes and you never know what might trigger PTSD. My suggestion? Tell her you love her, no matter what. Why don’t you stop by my gym and we’ll talk more.”
My throat gets tight. “Thanks, I owe you.”
“No problem. I can ask Mel to give her a call, okay? But keep this between us. I don’t want them thinking I’m taking sides.”
“I’ll do that.”
Moments later, Slate pings me that Isabella is on her way up and it’s as if a huge boulder is lifted off my shoulders. However, I’m a complete chicken and close my office door. I don’t want her to know my whole world crumbled the moment she said goodbye.
She goes to her cube and thankfully, board meetings keep my mind occupied until about two when I figure enough time has passed to check up on her. I walk down the hall made up of gray fabric cubes. I would’ve happily given her an office and a promotion but she won’t hear of it.
Despite all the morning’s drama, I can’t help but smile as I approach. She’s biting the top of a pen, typing away, and checking monitors as she works. She’s the best God-damned software architect in the company, she’s beautiful, and she’s mine.
Yawning, she slurps on an extra-large iced caramel latte. If she keeps that up, there’s no way she’ll sleep tonight and I wish I could scold her. Actually, I’m dying to say anything at all. Mostly, I want her to admit that breaking up was a huge mistake but remember what I learned today online.
Don’t push. Give her some space.
Her big blue eyes lock onto mine, then oddly, dart around the room as if trying to tell me something. “You need to go. Let me work.”
Her voice is too curt and that strange, shifty look confuses me. Something is very, very off. Even though I have no idea what she really wants, I give her a quick nod and go. I’m pretty sure she’s asking for my help and it gets me thinking.
I wonder if it has to do with Bear Mountain. Four weeks ago, I almost lost her to hypothermia in the woods. She was chased there by some thugs and although never proven, we always assumed they were hired by Xavier Cross.
Oh fuck!
What the hell is wrong with me? I should’ve thought of this sooner. When all that shit went down, I had Slate install cameras outside her apartment. We need to check.
Me: I think X may be back. Need Izzy’s videos.
Slate: On it.
I’d call the FBI, the CIA, and the State Police but need some kind of proof. I also need to know how to deal with her weird mood so I shut off my computer and text Slate to pick me up.
When he stops outside an old warehouse in Queens, I ask, “Wait for me, okay?”
Nodding slowly, his bodyguard eyes dart, taking in the surroundings before opening the back door.
Then, I step over to the building, push the doorbell, and an automated female voice responds. “Hello, Mr. Patten. Please push on the door and go down the stairs to your right.”
I do as she says and find Chance Quinn bench pressing what must be two hundred pounds. He places the barbells in the holder, climbs out from under, and stands to shake hands.
Looking over my corporate attire, he shakes his head and points to a blue door. “Get changed and we’ll talk.”
I nod, amazed at the dozens of machines, and return moments later in sweats. He finishes some crunches on a matt, grabs a towel, and heads toward one of two treadmills.
“So, how can I help?” CJ walks quickly, sneakers pounding on the belt.
I join him on the right and start up my machine. “Isabella came to me all bruised this morning and when I pushed for details, she said she fell out of bed. It looked more like someone punched her.”
“Shit. Has anything like this ever happened before?” He presses the up arrow on the dashboard and starts to jog.
I do the same, near my max, and talk between deep breaths. “No. This is a first.”
“Huh.”
We run for a while before I ask what’s been on my mind for some time, having to shout over the noise of the two treadmills. “How did your wife find Izzy, anyhow?”
“Craig’s list.” He chuckles.
“Damn. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Yeah. I had my man Jack investigate every one. They’re all legit. All abused. Some rape, some less. One woman is almost eighty and another not even twenty.”
Not to be outdone, even though I know he’s a professional athlete, I push my limit and up my pace until my thighs burn. “How many?” I huff. “In total?”
“She’s got about ten but she’s starting up another group in Manhattan.” CJ raises a brow as he glances down at my speed.
“Not bad. But you can get a workout anywhere. Spit it out.”
My ego takes a deep dive, having to ask such basic questions but obviously he’s got this relationship-thing down. “How do I get Isabella to talk to me?”
Frowning, his eyes narrow. “And how long you been sleeping together?”
“A month, give or take a couple days.”
“Okay, I thought it was longer than that.” He slows his pace to a walk, I do the same, and the machine noise lowers.
“First off, man. Don’t skirt around the issue. Call it what it is. Sexual abuse, rape, whatever. Don’t pretty it up. Pisses them off.”
I nod. “Check.”
“Hell, I don’t know, read up on the subject. How it fucks with their head, makes ‘em feel bad about their bodies, makes ‘em feel guilty. There’s some easy phrases to help. Her favorite line of mine is I’ll kill him for you, if you want.”
“Are you serious?”
He nods. “I must’ve threatened to kill her fucked-up father about a million times.”
“Shit. I’m so sorry, man.”
“Don’t say it to me, say it to Isabella.”
“I don’t think she wants me to know.”
His palms shoot together in namaste and he bows. “Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn. They want the subject to be less taboo. Mel thinks the reason that sexual abuse is so widespread is that no one talks about it, which means the fucking predators get away with it.”
I can see why it’s taboo. This whole conversation is making me damned uncomfortable. I don’t want to think of a young Isabella being touched by some deranged asshole. When I picture that, I want to shoot someone between the eyes and generally, I consider myself a non-violent man.
“It’s hard, right?” Quinn’s back to running full out while I walk, figuring I already measured up pretty well. After all, the guy’s an NFL quarterback.
I jump down, grab a bottle of water, and return. “So, I should just ask her about what happened?”
Quinn isn’t even breathing hard. “Yeah. When she looks sad and far away, ask her if she wants to talk. When she trusts you, you’ll get more. Make sure you believe everything she says, no matter how far out it sounds. Memories are weird and sometimes can get mixed up. Help her sort it all out.”
“How long before she gets better?”
CJ jumps off the moving rubber and onto the metal edge. He reaches over the rail and jabs a finger into my chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Haven’t you been listening? This is who she is. You take her broken or go back to LA. She doesn’t need you.”
I back away, pissed off. Then, I bench press, occasionally glaring his way. Quinn’s got me pegged all wrong.
After we hit the showers, he turns to me as we get dressed. “Isabella’s like family. She doesn’t need any more shit.”
I get in his face, having had just about enough. “Listen, I’ve been asking her to marry me but she keeps saying it’s too soon.”
“She’s a smart girl.”
“She’s a genius and I fucking love her.”
He smirks and just like that we’re good. “So, what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just need to get to know her better.”
“Good answer.” CJ must have a publicity shoot because he looks as corporate as me in his Italian suit.
I follow him out of the warehouse to where our limos are waiting and I wave to his driver, Jack. After, I nod to Slate, jump in the car and sit, determined to make things right with Izzy.
Before he starts driving, he swivels in the front seat, face grim. “I did as you asked and checked the surveillance cameras on her apartment. Everything stopped working, late last night.”